A Spear of Summer Grass - By Deanna Raybourn Page 0,80

how to move at all. The sun rose overhead, burning off the early morning cloud and casting short shadows. Hunger came and went again, and still we waited. At last, as the afternoon was drawing to a close, the lion finished mounting her for the last time. She lashed at him and he crouched and rolled on the ground. She hadn’t meant it. She stretched and wandered a little distance to the stream to drink and then she simply walked away, tail held high, no longer interested in him.

Just then, the male caught sight of something, or perhaps he smelled us.

He rolled back onto his four massive paws, lifting his enormous head and moving slowly toward us. Gideon lifted his spear and Ryder and I shouldered our rifles.

“Got him?” Ryder asked coolly.

“Yes.” The trigger was cold under my finger.

“He’s yours. Take him.”

My belly rolled. I didn’t want to do this. I would never have done this. This was destruction, something that felt criminal and wrong. The lion moved closer, never hurrying, secure in his own size, his own ferocity. His amber eyes surveyed the bush, and I saw that they were yellow around the pupils, just like Ryder’s.

“Princess?”

“I have him,” I said. My voice shook, but my hand was steady. The lion gathered himself then, and gave a roar so loud the ground trembled under my feet. The sound moved from the earth up into my legs and spread through my belly and my heart and lodged in my throat. I could feel it still when I pulled the trigger and the roar of the lion and the roar of the gun and the roar of my own voice were the same.

The lion stopped, stuttered a step, then kept coming. I fired again, and this time he gave a whimper and rolled onto his side. Ryder told me to reload and cover him as he moved out from the bushes. My hands were slick, and the bullets rattled in my palm.

“I will cover him, Bibi,” Gideon said softly, his spear arm ready.

I nodded and stuffed the bullets into the chamber, cocking the gun. Ryder motioned me forward.

“He’s done.”

“I don’t want to see him. Do I have to see him?”

“He’s your trophy.”

“Leave him there. I don’t want him touched. The hyenas can have him. And that’s not why I killed him. You know that.”

“Doesn’t matter to him,” Ryder pointed out. He bent to the bloody business with his knife, and rose a moment later. He walked back and opened my hand. He pressed something hard in the palm and I looked down. It was a tooth, as long and broad as a man’s finger. It was sharp and gleaming white through the blood. It was warm in my hand. He gave me a tuft of its mane as well, and I shoved the two trophies into my pocket.

Ryder turned to Gideon. “Any sign of the female?”

“No, Bwana. She ran at the sound of the guns.”

“Good,” Ryder told him.

“Yes, I am relieved,” Gideon said with his gap-toothed smile.

We turned and began to walk back to the camp. I felt nothing, no fear, no euphoria, nothing but an odd, incomparable lightness. I could have floated away just then, and only the weight of that tooth in my pocket held me down.

“Why are you relieved?” I asked suddenly.

Gideon turned to me. “The female is very deadly and very dangerous, and if she decided to avenge her mate, she could harm Bwana. And then perhaps I would have to kill her myself.”

“You don’t want to kill her?”

“No, Bibi. I have killed nine lions. That is enough.”

“Nine is a very great number,” I agreed.

He shook his head. “It is too great a number. For a man to kill more than nine lions, he has taken more than his share, and he will suffer very bad luck, Bibi. Very bad luck indeed.”

15

We returned to the cheers of the men just as Tusker was returning with her bearer. He carried a reedbuck slung over his shoulders and in one hand he held the stomach, stuffed with the internal organs and sewn shut. The cook went to work and the porters brought water, filling a canvas bath in my tent. I cleaned myself first, scrubbing off dirt and sweat and blood, surprised to find that I didn’t look any different. I spread my fingers and stared at the clean skin and immaculate nails.

“No perfumes of Araby needed to clean this little hand,” I murmured.

“Talking to yourself? Ah, well, at

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